


Sunless Eyes, Look Up

by orphan_account



Category: Arashi (Band)
Genre: M/M, Magic, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 17:34:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7396933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nino doesn’t know what colors are and Aiba doesn’t know what sounds are. They spend their days collecting laughter into glass jars and soaking colors of the sunrise into little sponges. All for a mysterious Sensei who has the power to fix them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunless Eyes, Look Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [calerine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/calerine/gifts).



> Disclaimer: This is all fiction. I'm not affiliated with Arashi or J&A in any way.   
> Previously posted on LJ.

  
*   *   *   *   *  
  
 _“I am a magician,” he said. “I can teach blind children how to see and deaf children how to hear.”_  
  
*   *   *   *   *  
  
Ninomiya Kazunari was born to the darkness. He doesn’t know what colors are. He never has.  
                 
To him, yellow is only one syllable more than red, and green is only a flatter taste on his tongue than blue. Dawn is more vivid than dusk because it wets his skin with dewdrops, but dusk he finds bolder because it’s dyed with laughter from all the restaurants and ball courts in town.  
  
 _Laughter._ Nino smiles. He wishes Aiba could hear it someday.  
  
Aiba is the deaf guy who lives with him in Sensei’s house and Nino thinks Aiba has the most ludicrous laugh he’s ever heard. It always starts out high and throaty like there’s a crumb tickling the back of his throat, but then it bounces and rises even more, like a wad of springy mochi that’s being stretched up towards the sky.  
  
It sounds so delicious Nino wishes he could sidle right up and taste it directly from Aiba’s lips. Those soft, clumsy lips.  
  
But _that_ , of course, is a secret Nino never intends to reveal.  
  
 _~_  
 _Pop._  
  
 _It was the first word Aiba wrote into Nino’s palm, back when he was ten and Nino was nine and they were both watching (or in Nino’s case, listening to) a soda pop commercial on Sensei’s old relic of a television._  
  
 _What does a pop sound like? Aiba asked._  
  
 _A big fart, Nino answered, and they both giggled wildly into Sensei’s soft cushions, holding hands like they no longer did anymore, not since their limbs grew long and their voices deepened._  
  
 _Back then, Aiba’s giggles had been so close, those warm lips hiccupping, almost touching Nino’s cheek, and back then, Nino would turn (only half accidentally) to bump his nose against Aiba’s, a whiff of that laughter just brushing his lip._  
 _~_  
  
These days, Nino mostly keeps to the shade and the hidden corners of town while Aiba laughs through the markets and sponges up the sizzling sun. He’s not welcome in places the light can reach, he knows that. Those are places for just Aiba. That much had been made crystal clear on his first excursion to town.  
  
 _~_  
 _It was watermelon season, and all the streets were filled with sounds of watermelons being split and sliced and slurped up by hungry whole folk._  
  
 _Wait here, Aiba wrote on his skin. I’ll go grab us a slice._  
  
 _Nino listened as Aiba’s footsteps faded into the milieu, sniffing the fruity air happily. Green is for watermelons, Aiba had told him. They were all green with dark stripes that looked like splashes of seawater. But inside, they were redder than anything the sea could hide. And red, Aiba had laughed. Red is for delicious._  
  
 _Twenty minutes passed and Aiba had still not returned. Uneasily, Nino shifted his feet. He really didn’t want to get lost in the streets, but after another five minutes, worry won over fear, and he began walking towards the marketplace._  
  
 _“Please come, Aiba-kun.”_  
  
 _At the sound of Aiba’s name, Nino’s ears perked up. He didn’t know the voice, but it was warm and slow, enunciating every syllable for Aiba to read._  
  
 _“We have tons of watermelons at the party. You can even take some home if you like. It’ll be fun. I’d be very honored if Aiba-kun would come celebrate my birthday with me.”_  
  
 _Aiba warbled something excitedly, undoubtedly gesticulating, but whatever the message was, it caused the other boy to step back, a note of apology now entering his voice._  
  
 _“Ah, that… well, Aiba-kun, I’m afraid not. I mean, it’s fine if it’s just you, but Nino-kun is a little… peculiar, don’t you think? His eyes… they’d frighten everyone. He’s bad luck! It wouldn’t be right to let him come.”_  
  
 _The bustle of the marketplace grew louder, and Nino didn’t catch what noise Aiba made in reply._  
  
 _“It’s really kind of you to think of him though,” the unnamed boy was saying. “And we all know how Aiba-kun can condense sunshine into little sponges and squeeze out threads of liquid gold, too. A lot of my friends are hoping to see you. Please, you should still come! I can take you right now.”_  
  
 _Nino slunk away before he could be devastated by Aiba’s reply._  
  
 _Was he surprised by what he had overheard? No, he supposed that deep down, he had always suspected that Aiba was too good for him. The words still stung, though, and as he stumbled back to where Aiba had left him he felt them smarting at the tips of his ears._  
  
 _He might as well just go home now. It wasn’t like Aiba would be coming back for him._  
  
 _Sullenly, he turned and swung his little pack over a tense shoulder._  
  
 _So much for the watermelons._  
  
 _He was just about to leave when those footsteps came again, skipping, joyous, as if nothing had happened at all. Breathlessly, he felt Aiba’s fingers take his and stood dumbly as his hand was guided to the warm crook of Aiba’s elbow._  
  
 _I think we should go home, Nino. Aiba’s laugh tickled just the right part of his ear._  
  
 _Today’s market is full of rotten fruit._  
 _~_  
  
Nino remembers how his heart had quickened and the very air seemed to blanket itself snugly around his teenaged body at those words. Wryly, he shakes his head and marvels at how his own doom had managed to sneak up on him so slyly.  
  
Because it’s been ever since that day that he has loved Aiba, secretly, fervently.  
  
And one hundred percent hopelessly.  
  
*   *   *   *   *  
  
 _“The first blind boy I met could collect laughter into little jars,” he said, the memory bringing a dimple to his well-fleshed cheek. “He would steal the carefree sounds from the open air and trap them like butterflies in a cage.”_  
  
*   *   *   *   *  
  
Nino is blind. Aiba is deaf. But neither of them is broken, Nino thinks fiercely.  
  
In fact, Nino’s just as strong as any of the whole folk. He can run; he can climb; he can melt into shadows that he can’t even see. Perhaps that’s why everyone shuns him. Ratty Kazu, they call him, a bad omen. They think they can shut him out, but quietly, he manages to defy them in his own way; into his sunless haunts their brightest laughs are extracted and trapped in little glass jars. Every night, he’ll run the stolen giggles through the sensitive spaces between his fingers and feel them flutter feebly before yielding to his touch and allowing him to pull them into long thin threads.  
  
Nino thinks of how disgusted the whole folk would be if they find out that part of them is forever trapped in _Ratty Kazu’s_ possession, and it puts a twisted smile on his face as he drifts off to sleep.  
  
 _~_  
 _“I am a magician,” said a peculiar man, many years ago. “I can teach blind boys how to see and deaf boys how to hear.”_  
  
 _Aiba perked up, but Nino restrained him with a wordless grip._  
  
 _“What do we have to give you in return?” he demanded warily._  
  
 _Sensei (for that was who he was) merely chuckled._  
  
 _“Laughter in little jars,” he said, almost whimsically. “And sponges soaked rich in sunrise.”_  
  
 _Nino froze, arrested by those seemingly innocuous words. How did this man know? They had just arrived in town, two lost boys with powers they tried hard to hide. How could this stranger know of the jars in Nino’s bag or the sponges at the bottom of Aiba’s pail?_  
  
 _Sensei had taken a step closer in the interim, and an air of melancholy hummed between them, almost magical in its intensity._  
  
 _“I have a boat with an empty mast and a loom with no thread,” he explained sadly. “Spool me enough laughter and sunrises to weave a sail, and my magic will make you both whole.”_  
  
 _Hesitantly, Nino turned to Aiba. Aiba squeezed his hand affirmatively. Heart thumping, Nino turned back to Sensei._  
  
 _“Deal,” he said._  
 _~_  
  
The glass jars jingle on their string around Nino’s waist. How many has he collected today? The young boy on the swings, he had a bright laugh, and the old crone by the inn, she was raspy but it was a laugh all the same. There was a young man hugging a young woman earlier; both their shy giggles now jostle each other in a single jar on his thigh.  
  
All in all, a productive day, Nino smiles down at his harvest with satisfaction. Over the years, it feels like he’s collected every single kind of laugh known to human ears. He supposes that’s something to be proud of.  
  
There’s just one laugh that Nino’s never quite laid his hands on, one laugh that he’s never captured in his clear little jars.  
  
And it descends like a splash of wine across the noontide sun.  
  
Nino, come on! An intrusive finger writes on his hand. I want to show you something!  
  
Abruptly, his arm is grabbed and the finger that was writing is now tickling his palm, urging him to follow.  
  
I’m busy, Nino barely has time to grumble before his whole body is pulled up and then all four of their feet are pattering across the springy grass, Aiba’s nimble and sure, his a little more stumbling and hesitant as he feels the sweep of sun cover them from above.  
  
It’s festival season! Aiba giggles mischievously and Nino groans. Of course, how could he forget? The Summer Matsuri starts today, and to fools who enjoy the outdoors (like Aiba), it’s the most delightful time of year. There’s music for those who have ears and lanterns for those who have eyes, dances for those who have legs, and fireworks—showers of thunderous, star-scattering fireworks—for everyone who simply draws breath.  
  
In the distance, the town drums are beginning and the entire ground pulsates so hard that even Aiba can appreciate the beats. He pulls Nino closer, and Nino can feel the radiance of his grin as a suspiciously familiar spool is thrust into his arms.  
  
This better not be what I think it is, Aiba.  
  
His exasperated words are met with a cheeky pinch.  
  
Would you stop worrying? It’s not like Sensei would actually _mind_.  
  
There’s a rustling of silken fabric as Aiba bends down to fiddle with something on the lawn and the spool spins loosely in Nino’s reluctant hands. A tail of silk brushes the exposed skin on Nino’s leg, cool, light, almost liquid, and the hum of magic in it is as unmistakable as the sun washing over them. What in the— Nino’s eyes widen involuntarily as he makes a swift grab for Aiba’s hand.  
  
You wove Sensei’s unfinished sail into a _kite?_!  
  
He doesn’t know whether he’s more appalled or amazed at the contraption being held up in front of him right now. For as long as he could remember, Aiba had always dreamt of flying _. Wouldn’t you love to meet the sun in the sky, Nino?_ He would go on and on about kites and humans flying attached to kites like some giant bat or flying squirrel or something else equally ridiculous. With an air of patience, Nino had always humored him, but he hadn’t expected _this. This_ is dangerously close to reality.  
  
Aiba gives him a sharp rap on the head.  
  
Of course not! His retort has the kind of naïve indignance that only a person like Aiba can pull off. I wouldn’t put us back like that! This kite is all me, Nino. I spun the threads separately and wove it myself.  
  
There’s a hint of pride that doesn’t escape Nino, and Aiba leans over to close his fingers over the spool.  
  
I could only do one square of fabric, he continues modestly. And it’s nowhere near as nice as Sensei’s work, but I just thought that maybe, you know, we could give it a run together and see?  
  
The drums beat on in the background, and Nino pretends to sigh in annoyance.  
  
You chose today on purpose, didn’t you? he grumbles. For the drums.  
  
You know me well, Aiba laughs.  
  
Show off, Nino mutters.  
  
They spend the rest of the day dashing across the lawn, over the hill and all along the deserted beach. The kite’s too small to hold a person, so they take turns holding the spool, and whenever Nino’s hands are free, he curls them into the hem of Aiba’s shirt and runs behind him. The silken kite tails flutter like soft whips in the wind, and over the calm waters of the bay, he can hear cheers of awe and amazement from the townsfolk who have gathered in the distance to watch the drums.  
  
Not for nothing is Aiba’s element _sunshine_ , he thinks grudgingly.  
  
He’s surprised when Aiba stops and grabs him by the wrist.  
  
Nino, Aiba writes as the kite continues to soar.  
  
I really think this year’s going to be _the_ year.  
  
*  *  *  *  *  
  
 _“The first deaf boy I met could soak sunrise into little sponges,” he said, and a ray of light hit him, stretching his shadow out long, long behind him. “He could squeeze out every color of the morning sky, and they would all condense into shimmering threads between his fingers.”_  
  
 *   *   *   *   *  
  
The mornings of summer always feel a little different. Azure skies, they always say, fields of green and shocks of red and mauve and dancing fuchsia. To Nino, summer is merely a season of colors he cannot see.  
  
The day after the drums start, Nino gets up in his usual darkness and gropes around for his bamboo stick and little string of jars. The days are longer and he has to get up earlier now because Sensei always recruits a hand from the town – a “whole” boy— to help with their summer chores. This year, his name is Sho.  
  
Nino ambles out and greets him at the gate. The handshake they share tells him that Sho thinks he’s both volatile and fragile, like the swing of a hornet’s nest.  
  
“Come on in,” Nino says, and he allows Sho to gingerly hold his arm while they make their way through the garden. Sho touches him like he expects his bones to crack and disintegrate any second. It makes Nino smile.  
  
They’re always the same, these whole boys. They never know whether to pity or fear him.  
  
“The sun is rising,” he remarks, noting how Sho seems startled at the prospect of small talk.  
  
“Yes,” comes the hesitant answer. “It’s just getting light.”  
  
“Mmm.” Nino lets him lead their way back to the porch. “Aiba should be down on the beach. I’ll introduce you. Can you see him?”  
  
He waits patiently for Sho to squint and scan the scene.  
  
“I’m sorry,” says Sho finally. “I don’t see anyone.”  
  
Nino cocks his head.  
  
“Look more carefully, Sho-kun.”  
  
He disentangles his arm from the whole boy and slips it across Sho’s shoulder, letting his hand follow the neck contours all the way up to those unfamiliar chin and lips. They feel so different from his own, and much different from Aiba’s. Where Aiba’s features are gentle, Sho’s jawline is steely, and his lips are stiff and protruding like prickly succulent petals.  
  
“Over there by the rocks, see?” Nino tilts the whole boy’s chin northward where the lap of the low tide is strongest. He almost laughs at the frightened flinch in those well-developed muscles. “Aiba likes to look for crabs in the crevices. Every day, he’ll lay his sponges out on the beach and soak up the sunrise like you all talk about, but sometimes he just can’t resist wading out and having a bit of fun too, you know what I mean? You can see all the folds of morning sky in his pail: the pepper-reds and sour-cream-golds and coarse-sugar-purples and light-mint-blues. Some days they’re beautiful. Some days they’re dull. Most days they splash a bit, though, because of the crabs. Do you see them, Sho-kun?”  
  
Meekly, Sho-kun nods. Nino lets go of his chin with a sigh.  
  
“Do you still think that I can’t see?” he asks Sho quietly. “Is that why you’re afraid of me?”  
  
Sho shifts uncomfortably and maybe he’s opening his mouth, trying to speak but at a loss for words. Nino often has that effect on people. It’s his eyes, and he knows what they say about his eyes in town, that they’re milk-white, perverse, and misshapen like a doll with no soul.  
  
“It’s only my eyes that are blind, Sho-kun,” Nino says with a laugh. “And you can see for yourself now, they don’t look so frightening, do they?”  
  
Sho mumbles something to the ground, and coquettishly Nino latches back onto the sturdy arm that had been holding him before.  
  
It doesn’t really matter if Sho can’t open up to him, he decides. By the end of summer, Aiba will inevitably have this dour Sho-kun soaked joyously from head to toe wrestling bubbles in Sensei’s bath house, anyways. Aiba’s good with people like that. People laugh and dance when they’re with Aiba.  
  
 _It’s only me they tiptoe around. Ratty Kazu. Dark Kazu._  
  
He blinks a ruffle of hair out of his eyes.  
  
 _Ratty Kazu who dreams of Aiba. I wonder what people would think of that?_  
  
   *   *   *   *   *  
  
It’s morning again, cool and dewy and full of distant sounds of the world waking up. The sun is only just beginning to rise, Nino reasons by the languid clank of Aiba’s pail, and they’re both in the eastern grounds of Sensei’s house, Aiba walking far down by the waves and Nino sitting with his legs curled on a high rock by the house.  
  
There’s a short grunt, and Nino leans forward more, as if the sunlight he cannot see is pulling him into an inexorable hug. The birds are all singing towards one direction, the direction of Aiba and the fresh ocean breeze.  
  
Nino hugs his legs to his chest and huddles more into where the night still lingers.  
  
Like mint on melted marshmallows, Aiba had written on his hand when he asked what the sunrise looked like. Or cotton candy getting devoured by rolls of warm caramel. It had been hard for Aiba to pinpoint.  
  
But whatever it was, it must look very beautiful, Nino thinks. The sunrise, with Aiba under it, gooey caramel over marshmallow brows and nose. He sighs quietly. The world, in this instant, must be at its peak of being beautiful.  
  
His eyes squeeze tight and in his colorless heart, he wishes for a laugh. It comes just a few seconds later, distant and springy. Like mochi. Like always.  
  
“The peak of being beautiful,” he murmurs dreamily.  
  
Something moves at the gate. From his rock, Nino turns around, blinking to clear his sightless eyes. The gait sounds familiar as it approaches.  
  
“Jun,” he says when he feels the footsteps stop in front of him.  
  
“Hello, Nino.”  
  
Jun is the grocer’s boy who comes to the house at least twice a week. Each time, he stops politely at the fence and waits to be let in. Nino wonders how long he’s been standing there today, watching him watch Aiba.  
  
“I have Sensei’s groceries,” Jun informs him. He’s one of the few people who look straight at Nino when they talk to him and that alone makes him something close to a friend in Nino’s book. “It’ll be just the usual amount, please.”  
  
“Thank you.” Nino hands him a few bills and pockets the receipt he hands back, but Jun makes no move to leave.  
  
“The whole town’s talking, you know.”  
  
“Hmm?” Absently, Nino turns his head. “About what?”  
  
“A magic kite,” says Jun, and Nino’s known him long enough to detect the probing note in his voice. “They say it appeared on the first day of the drums, changing colors like it had a life of its own. Like it was woven from _otherworldly_ materials, if you know what I mean.”  
  
“Well,” Nino replies, betraying nothing. “I wouldn’t know much about visions in the sky.”  
  
They lapse into a familiar silence as Jun helpfully carries the groceries into the house. Warily, Nino leans against the doorframe, marking the rhythm of his movements. Jun’s always been different from the other whole folk, more perceptive, more vigilant. Nino’s never been able to gauge Jun the way he gauges the others. Sometimes, it fills him with unease and he suspects that Jun knows a lot more about him than he lets on, but most of the time, they share a peaceful silence and Jun is content to let him enjoy his solitude, only occasionally disrupting him to slip an extra tablecloth over his shoulders when the mornings get cold.  
  
“You should tell him how you feel, you know.”  
  
Nino starts as a hand reaches over and with surprising gentleness, covers his. Jun’s voice has grown suddenly quiet. _Unfamiliarly_ quiet. And Nino has never liked unfamiliar things.  
  
“Mind your own business,” he answers tartly and draws his hand away to hide the mild tremble in it. “Besides, it’s not like I have any feelings to tell anyone about.”  
  
Very knowingly, Jun laughs.  
  
“My apologies.” He fishes around his apron for a bit, and Nino hears the crinkle of a plastic wrapper being held up to his face. “Here, maybe you’d like a caramel. Taste what you dream of.”  
  
Nino’s heart races at those last words and he curses his inability to see Jun’s expression. _Does he know something?_ His throat runs dry as he suddenly realizes just how transparent he might be to the man in front of him.  
  
 _Oh, fuck it._  
  
He snatches the proffered candy, opens it and tentatively licks it all around its surface. And then, like a missing piece of imagination, the first melt of sugar pools onto his tongue. Trickling colors, he feels, ebbing waves, and Aiba’s soft cheeks with damnable dashes of mint and dew…  
  
Reluctantly, he swallows despite himself and the empty wrapper gives a forlorn tickle against his palm.  
  
“Cotton candy devoured by caramel,” he sighs, momentarily lost in the taste.  
  
Jun straightens up with a chuckle and begins to pat the dust off his apron.  
  
“You should really tell him,” he says again, one foot already on the pedal of his bicycle.  
  
Nino watches blindly as the wheels grind the sand and the last drops of caramel melt away down his throat.  
  
Should a shadow ever try to leave a mark on the sun? He sighs resolutely.  
  
Jun knows nothing, he thinks.  
  
   *   *   *   *   *  
  
 _“In front of this house, there was a resplendent ocean.” He smiled with soft pride, and his dark eyes deepened like unfathomable wells. “I had a boat anchored there, waiting for a sail woven from threads of laughter and threads of sunrise.”_  
  
   *   *   *   *   *  
  
Evenings are the most peaceful time of day, Nino thinks. It’s just that sliver of time after Sho-kun leaves for the day and Aiba finishes collecting the last of the sunset when he feels like he can sink back, put both hands into Aiba’s soft hair and begin stroking the edge of his ears like he’s polishing them, like they’re intimate or something more.  
  
Smiling, Nino hums a tune to himself. He’s sitting with his back to the wall of his workroom and Aiba’s sleeping body is nestled in between his legs, the mossy head resting snugly on his chest.  
  
It’s been a long day with the festivities intensifying and the walls of their house now festooned with strings of empty jars and hungry pails, all drying in the summer air and waiting to be filled up again. There’s a lot more laughter to be collected now that the dancing carnival has started and Aiba has also been growing more and more jubilant, loping about the grounds with his pails clanking against each other and an exasperated Sho-kun running to keep up, clumsily trying to steady them.  
  
 _“Aiba-kun, slow down, you’ll trip!_ Aiba-kun!”  
  
People always forget that Aiba can’t hear, Nino smiles wryly. They never seem to forget that Nino can’t see, though.  
  
“Stay this way, Masaki,” he whispers into Aiba’s even breaths. The contours of that unblemished jaw are soft under his fingers, but he pauses contemplatively when he gets to Aiba’s lips. They’re slightly open, slightly chapped, and as Nino traces out the heart-shaped bumps on the top he feels like they’re also _begging_ for someone to lean down and brush them with the gift of fresh moisture…  
  
 _Don’t,_ says a stern voice in his head. _Even think about it._  
  
In the distance, a new song starts playing and sounds of revelry continue to rise into the night. Groggily, Aiba’s head shifts and shimmies up until it’s bumping the bottom of Nino’s chin and Nino feels a languid finger writing something lazily into his palm.  
  
I’m not asleep, you know.  
  
Nino laughs.  
  
I know, he replies untruthfully. That’s why I was tickling you.  
  
 _Tickling_ , he tells himself. _Not caressing._  
  
He helps Aiba sit up, and then stands to distance his beating heart from Aiba’s head. The loom is right there in front of him, so he walks forth and gropes for the beam from which the shuttle hangs, touching the threads like a harpist on his strings. Faintly, he can feel the laughter he imprisoned in each fiber vibrating against his fingers, and when he gets close enough he can even hear an echo or two that sound just like what he had initially captured in his little glass jars.  
  
Can you still hear them? Aiba asks curiously.  
  
Yes, says Nino brusquely. Here, come over and sit down with me.  
  
The cool vibration is still tingling at his fingertips, and slowly, he slips a thread of laughter smoothly from the loom. Aiba’s face is warm beside him, so without asking, he curls the humming string around Aiba’s ear and coaxes a fluttering giggle into the eager canal.  
  
Don’t waste anything! Aiba puts a warning hand on his arm. The sail’s so close to being finished.  
  
We can spare one thread, Nino reassures him. He scooches closer and puts his ear to Aiba’s so that they’re touching lightly, lobe to lobe.  
  
I just want us to feel it together, he says, a bit breathless. Maybe you’ll hear something this time.  
  
He presses their ears closer and closes his eyes.  
  
And then he imagines, like he does all the time, that maybe this is what kissing Aiba would feel like.  
  
*   *   *   *   *  
  
 _“Even broken locks have keys that turn them,” he said with a knowing smile. “And boys who aren’t whole have many pieces of heart to be opened.”_  
  
*   *   *   *   *  
  
Nino thinks he and Aiba are two very different people, born different, broken different, but by chance found in the same place by the same person who’s now trying to patch them up with the same elusive string of fate.  
  
He had once asked Sensei if opposites could meet in the middle and fall in love with each other. Sensei had yawned and answered with a smiling question of his own: _What makes you think you have to meet in the middle to fall in love, Nino?_  
  
From that, Nino concludes that Sensei is really _eerily_ astute, but that doesn’t make it any easier for him to see how someone as free-spirited as Aiba can possibly feel the same kind of thing towards someone as darkly unadventurous as Nino.  
  
When they are both in town at the same time, Aiba’s the one who whirls into the crowds and dances with the whole boys; his hoarse yips of glee ring alongside their laughter while Nino simply pulls his hood down lower and fades wordlessly into the sunless alleys.  
  
When they’re alone, Aiba does most of the talking too, his excited fingers scrawling out plans for flying and kite-weaving and inventing invisible armor while Nino lets his mind stagnate, stroking that soft hair and wondering with pathetic nags of self-loathing how Aiba might react if one day he just lets it all out and tells him point blank _: I love you, Aiba. Always you, only you. Will you love me too? Will you love me only?_  
  
The ugliness of his own thoughts makes him recoil as he pours the day’s laughter from one jar to another. He has no right over Aiba, he reminds himself for the umpteenth time that day. He is a creature of the shadows, while Aiba grew up holding hands with the sun. Soon, the loom will finish weaving, the sail will billow from Sensei’s mast, and Aiba will move on to dazzle millions with his adventures in the sky while Nino stays on to savor a lifetime of empty sunrises.  
  
Not everyone gets to meet nicely in the middle, Nino decides bitterly. When you start off so far apart, it’s probably easier not even to try.  
  
A muffled crash from the weaving room interrupts his thoughts, and a panicked cry betrays the clumsy culprit behind it.  
  
 _That idiot._  
  
Nino hurries towards the noise, his heart oddly unsettled by the sounds of rolling spools knocking against wood.  
  
 _He’s going to finish that kite, isn’t he?_  
  
 _One day, he’s really going to fly away._  
  
 _Isn’t he?_  
  
*   *   *   *   *  
  
 _“When my sail is woven, they will see and hear, and never set foot in this house again,” he smiled, wrinkling a little scar on his face. “I’ll be where the wind takes me, and these brick walls will tumble and scatter.”_  
  
*   *   *   *   *  
  
Thursdays are loom maintenance days, and since it’s Sho’s first Thursday with them, Aiba insists on showing him around the weaving room and letting him set eyes on the magnificent sail hanging unfinished on the loom. Rolling his eyes, Nino keeps to the wall. He’s already been told many times (enthusiastically and none too gently on his skin) that looking at Sensei’s work straight on is like biting into one of Jun-kun’s seven-layered chocolate-vanilla-hazelnut-coffee cakes with bits of sweet jelly leaking out from the pockets. It’s beautiful, a masterpiece, Aiba gushes.  Each thread changes color depending on the angle of the eye, and Sensei artfully weaves the rays so that little details stay hidden until one learns to look at it in exactly the correct position.  
  
It’s always been times like these when seeing seems overrated to Nino. After all, who needs to _see_ when Aiba’s already there describing everything in more vivid and beautiful detail than mere eyes could ever capture?  
  
“Is this… real?”  
  
Sho-kun breaks his reverie, moving curiously beside him. He’s a boy from one of those nice normal families, Nino can tell. He probably has a mother, a father and perhaps even a couple of extra siblings to squabble with every now and then. Nino doubts he’s touched even a quiver of magic in his life, but he pauses, wondering if the eyes of Sho would somehow see differently than the eyes of Aiba.  
  
“Go see for yourself,” he grunts and pushes Sho forward to where Aiba’s hand is waiting.  
  
The whole boy gasps as the first thread touches him.  
  
“It changed color!” he exclaims. “It went from being all light green and golden to a sort of bluish-turquoise, and now it’s got these purple wavy lines in it, like something’s swimming in it and, I mean, it looks like— _oh,_ _wait_ — _no way_ — _it can’t possibly be_ —”  
  
“What is it?” Nino blinks placidly while Aiba gives a self-satisfied giggle.  
  
He feels the closeness of the dewy thread as Sho turns back and gingerly holds it up to his cheek. There’s another breath of disbelief, and then all apprehension seems to give way to awe as Nino’s face is being tilted up by a set of well-built fingers, the thread glistening softly against his open eyes.  
  
“The magic kite,” Sho whispers reverently. “On the first day of the drums. It was made out of this material, wasn’t it? God, it was actually _real_ , wasn’t it?”  
  
“Of course.” Nino ducks his face out of Sho’s hands and tsks at the oblivious Aiba to thread the fiber back onto the loomshuttle. “Aiba made it.”  
  
Sho breathes out like he doesn’t even notice Aiba taking the thread from his fingers. “So that’s what it was,” he murmurs excitedly. “That explains it perfectly.”  
  
“Explains _what_ perfectly?” Nino asks.  
  
“The color of the kite,” Sho tells him patiently. “Who else would be able to harvest thread that matched the exact shade of Nino’s eyes?”  
  
Aiba is still humming to himself as he fixes the loom, and Nino is glad that he doesn’t seem to have caught a word of their conversation.  
  
 _The color of my eyes, huh._  
  
Nino shivers warmly as he starts cleaning up a table full of caked sponges.  
  
 _It probably doesn’t mean anything._ He gives the washcloth he’s holding a good hard wring and waits until the very last drop of water drips back into the bucket.  
  
 _Probably just coincidence._  
  
*   *   *   *   *  
  
The next day is such a festive one that Nino’s little jars are all filled to the brim by early afternoon, and he’s just about to trot his way back to Sensei’s house (where hopefully a nice bath is waiting for him) when familiar footsteps accost him in the middle of a small alley.  
  
Come, Nino! There’s an ice cream event! The fingerstrokes are rushed, like Aiba just can’t waste another moment _not_ stamping through the cobblestone roads in search of his next adventure.  
  
I don’t like sweet things, Nino grouses. The truth is, he probably dislikes being _visible_ a lot more, but he doesn’t say that and instead tries to look tired as he gives Aiba’s arm a pat.  You go, and bring some back for Sensei.  
  
But Nino, this is the _Sakamoto Creamery_. All of Sho-kun’s friends are going to be there. They’re going to have a singing tournament and Shige-kun is going to read us another story from his book!  
  
Petulantly, Aiba tugs him by the sleeve. Nino responds with an eye roll the size of Sho-kun’s bottomless stomach.  
  
You can’t even hear, he points out.  
  
I lip read, Aiba argues, prompting Nino to snicker.  
  
You can’t even lip read Sho-kun asking for seconds at lunch.  
  
He uses big words!  
  
Aiba is pulling at his wrist now.  
  
 _Please_ , Nino. Just come. I’ll even pay for you.  
  
Oh, you will?  
  
In the shadows of his hood, Nino’s brows go up, and he feels a sudden warmth at the thought of Aiba leading him into the shop and plonking down a fistful of coins. _Count Nino on my tab_ , Aiba might beam to the whole boy behind the counter, and Nino can just feel the envious looks on the other boys’ faces. _What about me, Aiba? And me? Treat me too, Aiba!_ they might clamor and press, but Aiba’s hand will only reach for Nino’s and then—Nino feels summer blazing in his heart as he envisions it—then Aiba’s breath would ruffle that curl of hair around his ear. _What flavor?_ he’ll ask, and Nino will catch a whiff of pistachio-tinged vanilla and wish that he’s tasting it off of Aiba’s tongue instead of the plastic sampling spoon that’s handed to him…  
  
With a start, Nino lands back on his butt and into reality.  
  
Two scoops, Aiba is promising him eagerly. And any toppings you like.  
  
Suddenly, a few words from Sensei come floating to mind.  
  
 _Snowflakes,_ Sensei had once said dreamily. _As soon as you touch them, they crumble. As soon as you taste them, they melt._  
  
 _The only way to keep them perfect is to stay far, far away._  
  
Nino lets his mind chew on that thought for just a few seconds longer before he turns his face to where Aiba’s undoubtedly putting on a futile pout.  
  
Let me know if you finally find someone who can score _lower_ than Sho-kun in karaoke, he snorts dismissively.  
  
Aiba makes a noise of disappointment and lets go of his hand, defeated.  
  
I’ll bring something back for Sensei then, he says with a sigh, and Nino can hear him turning away already.  
  
Bye, he says.  
  
See you at home, Nino answers.  
  
The walk back seems longer now and the warm bath less appealing, but he heaves a sigh and grips his walking stick with determination.  
  
“Well, at least today was productive _,”_ he mutters to himself.  
  
The little glass jars at his waist jingle forlornly in response.  
  
   *   *   *   *   *  
  
 _“The summer festival never used to rest for the rain,” he smiled nostalgically. “The fireflies would glow like hazy globes and the fireworks always competed with the storm, rumble for rumble.”_  
  
   *   *   *   *   *  
  
 _Atchoo!_  
  
Aiba sneezes through the towel on his face. Outside, the rain patters on, and just beneath the drizzle the sound of fireworks boom distantly in the night.  
  
I told you to wear a jacket, Nino scolds him. Where’s the jacket I gave you?  
  
He pats Aiba’s shoulders and feels nothing but a T-shirt plastered against wet skin.  
  
 _Atchoo!_ Aiba sneezes again, and this time, the force of it brings their faces so close that Nino can smell the fresh vanilla of Aiba’s breath on his cheeks.  
  
Sorry, I gave it to Yoko-tan, Aiba admitted, having at least the decency to sound sheepish. His little brother looked cold.  
  
And now you’re the one sneezing, Nino retorts brusquely. He makes a mental note to write on every one of Aiba’s possessions from now on: _For Aiba’s Use Only_.  
  
The wet skin shifts as Aiba scratches the back of his head. Nino knows he’s looking contrite, but he still takes the opportunity to smack him with a towel.  
  
You didn’t even have to go today, he complains, mussing Aiba’s hair dry. He’s feeling it again, that sour twinge whenever Aiba is away from his side. Of course Aiba doesn’t _have_ to go to town for the start of the fireworks; he never _has_ to go for anything. It’s just that unlike Nino, he actually _likes_ to.  
  
Nino can recall festivals from years past where Aiba would get so excited that his finger almost never left Nino’s sweaty palm.  
  
 _~_  
 _Cherry bursts, Nino! Think of a nice ripe cherry bursting in your mouth; that’s how they look. And now they’re fading like—you know that fizzy drink Jun-kun brought last week?—just like that, sprinkling everywhere. The new round’s about to start now. Can you hear them, Nino? What do they sound like? Tell me, tell me!_  
  
 _Aiba grew so excited his clumsy voice broke the air cawing and the untried syllables squawked like a broken hinge over the jumping night._  
  
 _“Ngee-no!” he cried. “Ngee-no!”_  
  
 _That was the first time Nino’s tongue ever went limp in his otherwise sharp mouth. In his head, Aiba’s coarse voice echoed like the rise and fall of some subliminal music and his entire world was suddenly reduced to nothing but those two heavenly syllables._  
  
 _Ngee-no. Ngee-no!_  
  
 _Aiba never got a good description of the fireworks exploding that night._  
 _~_  
  
Tying an apron around his waist, Nino purses his lips as Aiba tries (and fails) to stifle yet another sneeze. Sho-kun had been in charge of lunch today and neither Aiba nor Nino (nor even Sensei) had been inclined to keep leftovers.  
  
“Thank god Jun brought soup mix this morning,” Nino mutters to himself, groping for a bowl and tearing open the packet. He’s never been much of a cook, but instant miso soup is something he’s very good at making.  
  
Meekly, Aiba shuffles over and rubs his hand.  
  
I wish you could have been there, writes one shivering finger. I wanted to tell you about all the colors and the shapes. It was the best show yet, Nino, _way_ better than last year’s.  
  
You say that every year. Nino shakes him off and pushes a bowl of hot soup forward.  
  
Now eat, he commands curtly.  
  
*   *   *   *   *  
  
 _“Being whole doesn’t equal happiness,” he said absentmindedly. “Hearing someone say ‘I love you,’ though…” He chuckled fondly. “You don’t need ears to hear that kind of joy.”_  
  
*   *   *   *   *  
  
“You’ll run out of time if you don’t make your feelings known soon.”  
  
It’s Jun who first tells Nino to just grow a spine and say the damn words already. The Matsuri is now in its final week with its lanterns burning hot and the fabric on the loom is only a few inches short of being sailworthy.  
  
Any day now.  
  
Nino closes his eyes, wondering what it is he’ll see first, what it is Aiba will hear first, what remnants of their former life will still linger between them. _The world will change in the space of that eyeblink_ , Sensei had told them. _And then there’ll be no going back._  
  
A sudden wave of anxiety floods Nino’s mind.  
  
“Well, don’t just stand there,” Jun is nudging him now. They’ve grown closer over the past few weeks, Jun often staying behind to sit with him as he watches Aiba blindly from the shadows. “Don’t you want to be the first voice he hears?”  
  
“Me?” Nino murmurs, taken aback.  
  
“Yes, you,” Jun confirms, a smile apparent in his voice. “He’s waiting for you, Nino; I saw him floating his magic kite. You know, it’s funny, but the color was the exact shade of—”  
  
“—of my eyes.” Nino breathes out. Something had just stirred in him. Softly, not dramatically, but very, very significantly.  
  
 _I wish you could have been there,_ Aiba had said before. _I wanted us to see the fireworks together._ His memory now jerks back to all those times Aiba had tugged on his arm, begging him to go into town, to taste the ice creams and listen to poets and sing along to Sho-kun’s off-key harmonies. He had always refused, of course. What would he do with a bunch of sunny whole boys anyways? But now, he’s wondering, what if Aiba actually _wanted_ his darkness? Really, has it never crossed his mind—not even once—that the sunny heart of Aiba Masaki might possibly _welcome_ his sightless shadow?  
  
A sudden urge comes over him to see Aiba, to catch Aiba, to go right up to Aiba, hold Aiba and not let go of Aiba. Just once, he wants to feel him the way others might have felt him—just _once_ —before the world changes and their paths diverge forever.  
  
Frantically, he turns to Jun.  
  
“He went into town about two hours ago.” Jun tosses him a jacket meaningfully.  
  
Nino’s not really used to large roads or laughing crowds, but now he’s tearing through both as his arms wrestle with the flailing jacket sleeves and his heart begins pounding with a rush of new hope. Somewhere out there, Aiba is waiting. He can just see him in his mind’s eye, smooth and warm with that laughing face turned up to the lingering sunset. Years of togetherness have honed Nino’s awareness of the other’s body—the loping gait, the hasty giggles, the light sweet breath that hums with his contagious warmth—and by some magnetic instinct, he manages to parse out the echoes of Aiba in the streets and arrive, slightly panting, at the gate of a quiet neighborhood. The festivities still rage in the distance, but here where Aiba’s presence is so palpably close, the air is filled with languid dust and stagnant fragrance.  
  
Heart still racing, Nino runs a hand over the wooden gate. The name carved onto the plate reads _Sakurai_. Intrigued, he takes a step forward, but is arrested at once by a rustle of fabric and a sob.  
  
“Scayred. Shou-kun, I’m s-scayred.”  
  
The voice is small and so dysarthric it may as well have come from a tongue-tied warbler, but it’s more words than Nino has ever heard Aiba say out loud in all of their years together. Mesmerized, he creeps closer, careful not to make a noise.  
  
“There, there,” the voice of Sakurai Sho mumbles awkwardly, and Nino hears the unpracticed pats of those clumsy hands on Aiba’s back. “You’ll be all right…”  
  
There is some more fabric rustling and then a soft flap as Aiba’s sobs suddenly rise to the level of Sho-kun’s neck and Nino deduces that his friend has just flung his arms around the bewildered whole boy.  
  
“But he’ll see!” Aiba chokes out, and Nino actually flinches at how different—how _agitated_ — he sounds. “It’s Ngee-no, Shou-kun. Evrythingull ch-chaynge if he sees. And what if—what if…”  
  
His words are lost in Sho-kun’s neck, and the hum of evening magic is broken only by the hesitant stroking of that soft, silken hair.  
  
A sour feeling twists Nino’s throat, and he thinks of the hair, the same hair that a few evenings ago had welcomed _his_ fingers as they rested together by the loom. Yet with him, Aiba had remained wordless, even feigned sleep. With him, Aiba had chosen to use the full shield of invisibility.  
  
 _Snowflakes. Did you really think you could touch one?_  
  
Bitterly, Nino steps back from the gate.  
  
He should have known that a shadow had no place on the face of the sun. Shadows are blemishes, nothing more. His jaw clenches as he passes the town carnival, the dancing, the sweet smells of candy from the carts... Once home, he shuts himself in his windowless room and opens his eyes wide in the darkness.  
  
Stay blank, he wills his mind. Don’t think. Just erase.  
  
That night, Aiba comes back to the house very late. He pauses at the door, and then pauses again by Nino’s bed.  
  
Nino curls up with his face to the wall and pretends to be fast asleep.  
  
*  *  *  *  *  
  
 _“I’m tired,” he said, giving an ageless pout. “My ship’s been straining against its anchor. But I can’t sail away with all that is home to them. Not until they find a new home in themselves, and in each other.”_  
  
*  *  *  *  *  
  
The last day of the festival dawns as joyously as ever, but for the first time in years, Nino opts to stay hunched in his windowless work room, counting again his hoard of little glass jars. Outside, far down by the lapping shore, Aiba’s metal pail clanks and bumps against his bony knees.  
  
 _He’ll be back soon._ Nino tries to ignore the sounds, but instead loses count of his current jar set. _It’s already too hot for the crabs._  
  
Sighing, he kicks his door shut and starts counting over again.  
  
 _~_  
 _They were only nineteen when the hottest summer of the century happened. The townsfolk said it was the goddess of love tempting people to shed their layers. Sensei said it was just the ocean scratching an itch with heated summer winds. But regardless of why it came, the land was hot, the air stifling, and the sun crackled like spice on their skin._  
  
 _That was the summer when Nino first found out._  
  
 _He was sitting in his favorite corner of the park with his jars open and his back against a rusty lamppost. The laughs were coming slower that day and all sound was muted in the heat of summer. Nino sighed and turned over the single jar he had managed to fill so far. He hoped that he could make at least one thread out of it._  
  
 _A slow giggle travelled to his ears from somewhere by the trees. He could hear the twigs cracking as two sets of footsteps drew close. One was Aiba’s, Nino sensed it immediately. The rhythm, the scent, it was definitely Aiba. But not the giggles. Those were from the other person, and Nino frowned as he listened to their footsteps stop and the sound of fabric being pressed up against rough bark._  
  
 _“It’s so hot, isn’t it?” said the giggling voice, all too coyly for Nino’s comfort. “Maybe Aiba-kun would like me to loosen up his collar?”_  
  
 _No, no! Nino shook his head vigorously. He did not like the sound of this other boy at all, and he liked him even less when he heard his words slur slowly into a wet-sounding lick._  
  
 _“You can’t hear, right?” The boy chuckled lightly and Aiba seemed to shift against the tree, whimpering. “That’s okay, as long as your lips still work…”_  
  
 _Nino stayed frozen, beads of hot sweat dripping from his chin, as he listened to the clothes fall down, the lips grind wetly, and finally, the tiny erotic moan that escaped—unmistakably—from Aiba Masaki’s mouth._  
  
 _Afterwards, he had spent days rationalizing. Aiba was nineteen after all. It was only a matter of time before he did what all people eventually did, and he was so popular in town, Nino really should have seen it coming. At least Aiba never met up with that boy again. And at least Aiba hadn’t (to Nino’s very extensive knowledge) found anyone else after that._  
  
 _Nino breathed out, hating himself for the secret prayer he made every night: Please, please, let Aiba be lonely. Please, please, let no one love him but me._  
  
 _He blamed it on that moan from Aiba’s lips. He just couldn’t get that damned sound out of his head._  
 _~_  
  
It’s evening before Nino opens his door again and as soon as he does, he feels something stir on the floor below. Both his hands are swept up before he can react and the knot in his stomach flies loose as a familiar breath fizzes over him like champagne.  
  
Tonight’s your last chance to dance! Aiba writes into his palm, as if nothing had happened the night before.  
  
Wearily, Nino smiles and doesn’t even resist as he’s pulled out onto the old stone road. This docility makes Aiba laugh and twirl him mischievously all the way to town where the flutes egg them on among the crowds of clapping whole folk. They dance and everyone laughs, but soon a buzz fills the air, an undercurrent of magic beneath the humdrum night creatures, and Nino’s skin begins to crawl.  
  
I’m tired, he writes to Aiba, breaking off from the dance floor. I think I’ll pass on the fireworks tonight.  
  
He withdraws to the side where the lanterns' warmth floods the garden and Aiba trots behind, squeezing his hand in concern. Aiba can't hear him, he knows, and it's too dark for lip reading.  
  
"I don’t think I should keep things bottled up anymore," he sighs. It feels somewhat relieving already, saying those words out loud.  
  
Remnants of laughter spiral up the open air and a hush settles over the town as people begin to turn their heads up, waiting for the grand finale in the sky.  
  
Nino, Aiba tugs at him. What's wrong?  
  
He closes his eyes, shutting everything out before deciding, _to hell with it_. Aiba can't hear, right? Aiba wouldn't understand, anyway. Nino opens his mouth, and once his voice leaves his throat, the words come trickling out and suddenly, it’s impossible to keep anything in anymore.  
  
“I’m breaking,” he says as Aiba steps closer. “And it’s all your fault.”  
  
The first fireworks whistle up over their heads and with an ear-splitting boom, crack into a thousand tiny splinters of light. Aiba’s hand is still warm on his skin; he feels it and sighs, strangely soothed.  
  
“I don’t suppose you’d know it, but it’s only with you that I’ve ever felt whole.” His voice lowers as he explains and the empty string at his waist grazes his leg loosely. “It’s been nice, seeing through your eyes, and it’s felt nice, too, being your ears at every festival. Too bad it was just never meant to last.” There’s a little clump of soil by his toe; deftly, he kicks it. On his elbow, Aiba’s fingers tighten.  
  
“It’s the only bond I’ve ever had with you,” he continues quietly. “And I’ll lose it the moment we both become whole. I suppose I’ll lose you, too. You’re going to fly once Sensei sets sail, after all.” He gives a bitter laugh and another whistle of fire shoots up in the distance.  
  
“You’re all I ever wanted.” He finally says it, not noting the curry-mint flashes lancing across his eyelids. “In every shade of darkness I’ve inhabited, I’ve always wanted you to be mine. But if your feelings are different, I won’t look where my eyes aren’t welcome.” He turns away suddenly and adds in a harder voice: “I’ve lived just fine without ever seeing your face, after all.”  
  
His body has stiffened, like he knows he’s exposed more than he should have, but the way Aiba’s warm breath is closing in on his neck—it’s not like he’ll have the ability to keep his chin up much longer, anyway.  
  
“Ngee-no, op’n yur eyes.”  
  
The clumsy words graze his eyelids, peeling them up like a gentle film.  
  
Confounded, he blinks. There are strange beings inhabiting the cisterns of his mind tonight—discrete shapes, moving shadows, and two round eyes, wide and flickering directly before his own. A breeze ripples through the party behind, and the eyes crinkle as the lights of a thousand lanterns sway to life in their sooty depths.  
  
“Mye feelings are not diff’rennt,” says the clumsy voice breathlessly.  
  
It takes Nino a whole second to realize that the world has just changed forever.  
  
It takes him another few to deduce that the face standing just an inch away, sprinkled with residual fireworks and watching with eyes of molten chocolate, must be none other than _Aiba_.  
  
 _His_ Aiba.  
  
Who must have heard, with crystal clarity, every word he had just uttered.  
  
*   *   *   *   *  
  
 _The shore was already distant when he peered back from beneath his sails of sunshine._  
  
 _“Goodbye,” he smiled, fingers kissing the frothy waves. “The magic is complete now.”_  
  
*   *   *   *   *  
  
“Will you flye width me, Ngee-no?”  
  
Aiba’s eyes are blinking. Close, so close, Nino thinks numbly, so big and liquid, too. A warm hand touches his fingers, but when Nino turns his head, startled, it withdraws, and he’s back to staring at those eyes. Those mesmerizing eyes.  
  
“I… I maide two plaices.”  
  
Up close, Nino realizes that Aiba’s hand is actually shaking, and that his face, after taking a step back, is surveying him with bated breath, as though he’s unsure, like he’s waiting or just plain _nervous._  
  
With a jolt, Nino realizes that he hasn’t said a word since opening his eyes. _Say something, idiot!_  
  
“You’re—it’s—everything’s beautiful,” Nino whispers, suddenly not knowing where he should place his gaze. Awkwardly, he gestures towards the wooden kite frame in front of them where Aiba’s other hand is resting. Somehow, they’ve travelled quite a distance away from the dancing festival and somehow, Aiba’s managed to lead them to the edge of the quiet beach and a glistening, tree-sized kite is resting by the craggy rocks before them.  
  
 _So he did finish his kite,_ Nino thinks in a daze. _And he’s made room for two._  
  
Instinctively, he takes a step towards it, grabbing the uncertain hand on his way. Pleasure, immediate and vivid, blossoms over Aiba’s cheeks.  
  
“It’s Ngee-no’s eye colur,” Aiba admits, his bashful syllables tripping over one another. “Alwaiys waunted Ngee-no’s eyes on me—othur menn have seen me, all—all of me, but thayre wurds doant count…”  
  
“Fool,” Nino cuts him off, his heart fluttering strangely. “I could have told you you’re beautiful even without my eyes.”  
  
That shuts Aiba up, and together they climb onto the wooden kite frame.  
  
“Ready?” Aiba smiles, and still holding his hand tight, Nino nods.  
  
There’s one quick tug from Aiba, and then the shining kite is billowing out behind them like a giant cape of honey. Nino’s gasp of exhilaration dies in his throat as the world unfolds under his newfound eyes. The festive town looks more marvelous than anything Nino had ever imagined, the night alive with a thousand shades of illumination, the fireworks blossoming above and neat lanterns swaying playfully below. Dancing silhouettes leap on the lawns and dotted across the distance are scattered lights from homes throughout the land. On Nino’s tongue, the wind tastes sweet and for the first time, he sees the trees as they bend joyfully to the same breeze bearing the kite aloft.  
  
“Wow,” he exhales and unconsciously clutches the strap closer to his beating heart. Beside him, Aiba laughs.  
  
“Do you still wangt mye eyes?” he teases warmly.  
  
Nino doesn’t answer. He doesn’t exactly have the breath to. Still chuckling, Aiba dips his arm and the whole kite swerves towards the rooftop of a curious-looking house with a large garden by the beach. The walls of the house seem to shine, with the colors changing constantly as they zoom closer. It’s only when they’re almost landed on the roof that Nino sees the splintering loom and scattering spools and realizes exactly where they are.  
  
“The sun’s about to rise,” Aiba tells him and with care, folds the wings of the kite around both their bodies like a giant blanket of gold. Somehow (perhaps it’s instinct or perhaps it’s habit), their hands find each other and Aiba blinks in the lightening sky, his dark eyes reflecting Nino’s awestruck ones.  
  
We’re both whole and free now, he writes in Nino’s palm. A slight blush creeps into his face as he pauses. They both look away and gasp at the same time when the first ray of sunlight pierces through the horizon and a piece of the garden below disappears into sand.  
  
“I suppose you heard everything I said earlier.” Nino huddles closer, feeling quite embarrassed about his outburst before. “I’m sorry.”  
  
Aiba merely shakes his head.  
  
I was scared too, he writes firmly. But Nino and I will never lose the bond between us. We’re bound by more than our brokenness, you know.  
  
“Masaki…” Nino swallows, his mouth suddenly very dry.  
  
Aiba is not writing any more. Both his hands are simply holding Nino’s, tighter and tighter.  
  
Another ray of sunlight beams across the water, and the sky flushes orange with all the fervor of morning. The garden is now half gone, the loom they had poured years of labor into now nothing but a patch of dry sand.  
  
“I don’t suppose we can stay for long,” says Nino softly.  
  
Aiba croaks something unintelligible and points to where the sun met the sea. Nino follows his gaze and sees a tiny sail shining with fluid colors bobbing on the gilded waters.  
  
“Sensei,” he breathes, and he can feel Aiba's breaths joining his like they were always meant to be. “Well, you were right about the sail. It really is a masterpiece.”  
  
Aiba nods sadly, his eyes still fixed on Nino’s. With a sigh, Nino adjusts the golden fabric around them and pulls him resolutely into his arms.  
  
“I meant it, you know,” he whispers, lacing their fingers together secretly. “What I said about wanting you.”  
  
Aiba snuggles deeper into his chest and smiles.  
  
Finally, says a finger on his palm. Took you long enough.  
  
*  *  *  *  *  
  
 _Decades after the house had sunken into sand and reams of unwoven sunshine had leaked into the sea, the townsfolk still talked and whole boys still gossiped about digging up jars that laughed when you opened them or sponges (half-rotted) that gleamed orange and pink when you accidentally left them in the dark. Matsuri time was still the merriest time of year, with splendid fireworks and booming drums, but the local grocer would now close shop at the brink of sunset, and no matter how many children knocked for evening sweetmeats to go with the fireworks, the door would remain shut, the windows dark and drawn._  
  
 _Mayor Sakurai often passed by that way. The children would bow to him respectfully and then giggle behind their hands at the curious wooden spool he always wore hanging from his neck. Their mothers would scold them. “Manners!” they’d scold sharply. “Sakurai-san was never elected for his sense of fashion anyways,” they would then mutter to one another after their children looked suitably chastened. The mayor himself never seemed too bothered; most of the time, he would simply look up and the stars would be there, reflected in his exceptionally round eyes. Some nights, if one looked closely enough, one of the stars would grow brighter than the rest, and sometimes, if one really paid attention, the star might even look like it was moving slightly, with just a hint of a fluttering tail._  
  
 _Whenever that happened, Sakurai-san would always smile and knock on the grocer’s door._  
  
 _And within the dark windows, a light would come on and lilting laughter, full of memories long and distant, would trickle into the winds of town._  
  
 _~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_  
  
END


End file.
